


The Quickest Way to my Heart is Coffee

by wrotemywayout



Category: In the Heights - Miranda/Hudes
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, ish, its usnavi's parents we know they dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrotemywayout/pseuds/wrotemywayout
Summary: A journey following Pete and his coffee from ages 8-18





	The Quickest Way to my Heart is Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> All Spanish used is my own. I'm conversationally fluent but I'm not by any means claiming that everything is perfect

Some had said that Pete was too young to be drinking coffee, but he didn’t mind. The coffee at the de la Vega’s bodega was cheap and it was something he could rely on, a daily routine. So, ever since he was hardly taller than the counter, he went in every day. Saved quarters and dimes from couch cushions and sidewalks to be able to pay for a medium iced coffee with milk. It was among the few consistent things in his life.

The person behind the counter changed with the years but the taste of the not-too-bitter and sometimes-too-cold coffee stayed the same. When he first started coming to the bodega he was met with Señora de la Vega and a heavily accented “Aren’t you too small for this caffeine, hijo?” but she gave it to him nonetheless with a polite “Thank you, ma’am,” he was on his way.

Drinking coffee made him feel grown up. With no family consistently supporting him Pete was forced to grow up fast. If he had to walk himself to school and make himself dinner like an adult then he at least deserved to drink coffee like one, even if he was only eight. His routine remained constant for two years before anything drastic happened. He would walk to the bodega after school and order his drink, politely chatting with either Señor or Señora de la Vega as it brewed. In the fall when he was ten the bodega would be closed some days. Pete didn’t think much of it. He ignored the headaches that the lack of caffeine caused and waited for the next day when he would stop by again. On the days the store was open the owners seemed tired, less chatty so Pete quietly waited for his drink, not wanting to bother them with unnecessary conversation. Throughout all this, the “Thank you, ma’am” or “Thank you, sir” and the “De nada, hijo,” stayed the same.

Around Christmas time the bodega was closed for weeks. Pete didn’t dare go anywhere else for his coffee. It wouldn’t be the same. He used the dollar he saved each day to buy art supplies and he began to fall in love with painting. He started to spend more time with the kids in high school and learned how to use spray paint. His art on abandoned buildings was like a physical representation of any emotions he hadn’t learned how to express.

He was walking home with his paints in his beat-up backpack when he noticed a light on in the bodega across the street. Hastily looking for cars Pete ran across and stepped inside, the familiar sound of the bells jingling as he opened the door. Behind the counter was not the owners he had gotten used to over the past couple years but a boy, hardly sixteen, looking exhausted and reading a textbook. He didn’t even seem to notice Pete walking in.

“Hey man,” Pete said when he approached the counter “can I get a medium iced coffee with milk?”

 

“Café helado con leche? Are you the same guy my parents used to talk about?” The boy smiled, wrinkling the edges of his tired eyes. “They used to talk about a little guy with that same order coming in every day”

“Yeah, that sounds like me,” Pete said. “Your folks own this place?”

“They did. They, uh, actually passed a couple weeks ago.” The boy’s smile faded as he placed Pete’s order on the counter. “That’s gonna be a dollar.”

Pete put his folded dollar bill on the counter, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

“Not your fault,” the boy said, opening his textbook and pulling a notebook from under the counter. “Have a good one.”

As time went on and Pete continued painting he began to earn a reputation around the barrio. People began to think of him as delinquent, a teenager with no respect for authority or the community. It didn’t bother Pete much because he knew they were wrong. He wasn’t trying to harm anyone. He was trying to express himself in the only way he knew how. Pete was thirteen one day when he entered the bodega. He opened his backpack to fish out the dollar for his coffee, his spray cans knocking together and making a soft metallic sound.

“Aren’t you too small to be tagging buildings?” The resemblance between Usnavi and his mother had never been so obvious.

He continued to see Usnavi every day and eventually stopped trying to convince him that he wasn’t actually so rebellious or criminal. Pete got his coffee and Usnavi got paid. 

Besides, Pete wasn’t too worried about what his local bodega owner thought of him. He had a good group of friends who would hang out with him so he had something to do instead of going home. Pete had a solid group that he could go out for dollar slices with and who would walk anywhere but home with him, ignoring their curfews. The high school kids who taught Pete to paint had since graduated, leaving him to make friends in his own classes and in the neighborhood.

That was how Pete met Sonny. Pete was alone that day, his friends busy with work or family or whatever reasons they provided that they couldn’t hang out. But loneliness was an issue that a greasy slice of pizza from the parlor down the block could easily solve.

He got his slice and sat at the bar seating at the window. People watching was one of Pete’s favorite ways to pass the time.

“Yo,” Pete turned in his seat and say a boy, maybe a little younger than him with a green baseball cap and the gap of a missing tooth. “Can I sit here? You look lonely.” Before Pete answered the boy was already climbing into the seat next to him. 

“Go for it, man. I’m Pete by the way.”

“Sonny,” the boy, or Sonny, replied through a mouth full of pizza.

Pete and Sonny talked and talked until they were forced to order more food or leave. Two slices later they parted ways, but not before making plans to meet there the following day. Pete could tell that they would soon have a unique friendship as he already felt that he had known Sonny for years. Pete learned that Sonny was, in fact, younger than him, twelve to Pete’s fourteen. He learned that Sonny’s parents stayed in DR and he lives with his cousin. He told Sonny about his absent parents and his love for art. It was easier for Pete to talk to Sonny than anyone else, even though they had just met.

 

Pete and Sonny transitioned from getting pizza together to walking around the barrio together to Sonny watching Pete paint and so on. Soon, whenever they had a free moment they were together.

That summer they were walking down the block, talking about nothing and everything. The sun was pounding down on Pete’s back, enhancing his mixed skin tone. “Damn, it’s hot out.” Pete wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Wanna pop into my cousin’s bodega and grab some ice cream? It’s three blocks that way.” Sonny offered, pointing down the street.

“Hell yeah, Sonny. I knew being friends with you would have benefits.”

They turned down an all too familiar street. “No fucking way,” said Pete, shaking his head as he stepped inside the bodega.

“What?” said Sonny “Something wrong?” 

 

Before Pete could answer Usnavi stepped out from the back, wiping his hands with a towel.

“Sonny, is this the friend you’ve been hanging around with?” Usnavi spoke to Sonny but stared directly at Pete.

“Yeah, Usnavi this is my friend Pete. Pete, this is my cousin Usnavi.” Sonny walked to the freezers for something to cool off with.

“We’ve met,” said Pete. “What’s up Usnavi?” Pete gave Usnavi a small wave and followed Sonny to the ice cream.

“No no no, Sonny you can’t be hanging around with him anymore.”

“What do you mean? Pete’s my best friend.” Sonny headed to the counter, confused.

Pete said nothing, frozen in his tracks.

“Sonny, do you know how hard your tios and I have worked to give you the best life possible? Pete is bad news. I will not let you throw away the life we have worked for so you can hang out with some punk. I just won’t.” Usnavi kept his voice calm and level and it somehow hurt Pete even more.

“He’s not a punk, he’s my best friend. Usnavi, I thought you trusted me.” Sonny looked as hurt as Pete felt.

“I trusted you to make good choices and look who you ended up with. If I can’t trust you to make good choices in your free time you won’t have any at all. You’re working here this summer. Pete, you should go.”

Pete knew that Sonny was calling out to him but he was too hurt to actually hear what he was saying. He went outside and walked straight home.

Fortunately, Usnavi’s plan backfired. Having Sonny working at the bodega allowed Usnavi to do paperwork and tasks that he would typically leave until after closing during the day. When it was slow Usnavi would go into the office in the back and work. This allowed for Pete and Sonny to spend more time together than ever.

“Hey, Sonny. I’ll take a medium iced coffee with milk.”

“You got it.” Sonny turned to start making Pete’s drink. “Man, it blows that I have to work here now. I can’t believe Usnavi got so mad. Aren’t there some kinda labor laws or whatever?”

“I guess it’s not that bad. He can’t make you work forever and he’s gotta pay you. Now you can like buy me pizza and stuff.” Pete pushed himself onto the counter, swinging his legs.

“Is my pizza buying ability the only reason you hang out with me?” Sonny handed Pete his coffee.

“Not the only reason.” Pete took a sip. “You also make me coffee.”

Despite Usnavi’s complaints, Pete and Sonny never grew apart. As Sonny got older he gained more independence and Usnavi realized he can’t dictate who he spends time with anymore. Pete continued to hang around the bodega after school and on weekends and Sonny began to willingly work the register, now having actual uses for his paychecks.

“Hey, Sonny.” Pete walked into the bodega and threw his backpack down behind the counter. “I’ll take a-”

“Medium iced coffee with milk. Damn, Pete do you really think I wouldn’t remember after like two years?” Sonny began filling the cup with ice.

“You know me so well it’s scary.”

“No,” Sonny poured the coffee. “I’m just smart enough to notice a pattern when you get the same thing literally every day.”

“Fair enough.”

As time passed Sonny and Pete transitioned from Sonny sitting on the counter eating grape nerds and complaining about homework to Sonny sitting on the counter with Pete standing facing him, stealing quick kisses and resting his forehead on his boyfriend’s. They had it good.

The transition from best friends to boyfriends was easy. They already spent so much time together, creating a nice domestic routine. They’d known each other for so long and cared about each other so deeply that not much changed about their relationship. It was hard for them to not fall in love. It was natural, necessary.

As Pete grew as an artist he was able to make money on painting commissioned murals and artwork for buildings and organizations. He was currently working on painting a brick wall of a rec center. As soon as his shift for the day ended he headed for the bodega, where he knew Sonny was working.

“Hey, Sonshine. It’s hot out there can I get a-”

“Café helado con leche?” Sonny finished for him. “Right here.” Sonny pulled Pete’s already made coffee from the fridge under the counter.

“You really are the perfect boyfriend, huh?” Pete took a sip, “When’d you make this?”

“Um, ten minutes ago?” Sonny glanced at the clock. “Soon as I knew you’d be done working.”

“Yep, definitely perfect.” Pete leaned over the counter, intending to give Sonny a chaste peck but Sonny took hold of Pete’s jaw, pressing further into the kiss. The counter made things a little bit awkward but it was nothing they hadn’t done before. They were lost within each other, too distracted to hear the office door open and close.

“Ay, carajo. No kissing on the clock.”

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written in the heights in so long but its easily my favorite show. i missed these boys. let me know what you think in the comments or on tumblr at little-bit-of-cinnamon


End file.
